


To Love and Hate In Turn

by Mandibles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Hemophiliac Karkat, Alternate Universe - College/University, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Karkat Vantas and you're trying to make sense of these messed up feelings you have for a certain sweaty bastard. It's harder than you thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

No matter how many times your fist cracks against his face, he doesn’t do anything. Yeah, he grunts when his head ricochets off the wall and scrambles for purchase whenever he loses his footing, but he doesn’t make to strike back at all. He never does. He just steadies himself, wipes blood from his chin, and gives you that look; the one that makes you hit him again. Rage you can understand. Hatred even more so. But, that’s not what twists his stupid, sweaty face.

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are a nineteen-year-old albino hemophiliac. And, you hate fucking _pity_.  


Especially from him.

“Are you fini—”

You swing again, but exhaustion makes you miss and momentum makes you stumble. You scrape your palms in your haste to brace yourself against the wall before you fall on the (damnably taller) bastard under you. The alley fills with your harsh panting; the guy you were just wailing on takes simple, even breaths. And, only pity is exhaled.

“Vantas, are you all ri—”

He jumps when you slam your fist against the wall, the gesture taking that last bit of energy from you.  
“Shut . . . shut your fucking mouth, Zahhak.” It takes effort to push out the extra, “Fucktard,” between pants.

Zahhak bristles, cracked lips pulling into a frown and spilling more blood. Instead of admonishing your l00d language, he cocks his head and says the stupidest fucking thing.

“I’m sorry.”

You barely restrain yourself from wringing his throat.

“The fuck are you talking abou—”

“Your hand.”

You glance and, sure enough, there’s too much blood running down your knuckle and palm to be all his.

“It’s from your fucking mess of a mouth,” you bark, reciting all-too-familiar lines.

Zahhak must forget his part, because he just stares at you with—fuck—those stupid blue, blue eyes of his. Shit. When had his shades fallen off? When had yours?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You bite your lip until copper stings your tastebuds.

“I know,” Zahhak finally says, too late for him to still be talking about his fucked up teeth. A shamed flush creeps across his cheeks, but he amazingly keeps eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

In his next breath, he offers to patch you up. Too tired and worn to say no, you grudgingly accept.  
Like so many times before, you find yourself in his dorm, the two of you waiting patiently for the cuts on your hands and lips to stop bleeding.

And, like so many times before, you find yourself fucking him over his desk and cleaning yourself up with his roommate’s (a bigger elitist hipster prick) towel.

And, like so many, many time before, you try to convince yourself that you aren’t the slightest bit hurt by the fact that those white-knuckled hands will never, ever touch you. That Zahhak refuses to touch you, but lets you do . . . this to him.

-

You greet the morning with a glare and a growl. It isn’t because of the shafts of sunlight that stings your eyes or because the joints in your right hand are screaming. And, it certainly isn’t because Zahhak is curled over his desk instead of curled around you or that Zahhak is too freaked out by you to even touch you. Because, that doesn’t hurt at all, the fact that this sweaty, masochistic, dentist’s nightmare of a history major thinks he has the right to—to—

(Love you?)

No, don’t you fucking—

(Love you even though you treat him like shit?)

Fuck you, you fucking—fucking—

You’re still trembling with rage when you pull your hoodie on and set your sunglasses back into place. You slam the door when you leave; you hear the mirror that you blatantly avoided on your way out fall and shatter.

-

You step out of the dorm just as Ampora walks in. There’s murder behind Buddy Holly-esque glasses and bejeweled balled fists. Though your hand hurts, you keep your middle finger up until you’re sure he’s seen it, chewed it, ingested it, digested it, and has broken out into a bit of a run.

You imagine his face when he discovers Zahhak still nude, still bloodied, and still strewn across his desk. You grin a bit to yourself. But, then, you imagine Zahhak’s face when Ampora finds him nude, bloodied, and strewn across a desk, and a bit of guilt gathers at your throat.

-

The heavy rank of marijuana greets you when you return to your room. Gamzee’s passed out on his bed, snoring to the high heavens with the small blunt still smoking slightly between his slack fingers. You frown when you take it, but you still take a hearty drag. The window opens with a creak and you toss the blunt out; you switch on the fan which is all ready facing out.

Feeling somewhat calmer, you climb onto your bed, crawl under the covers, and slip into an empty, Zahhak-free dream space.


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you like the weight that’s settled on your groin. Like it a whole fucking lot, you don’t even know. Caught in that strange plane of existence between awake and asleep, nothing about this feels out of place in the slightest. Especially when those hips wriggle and grind against your, oh shit yeah, hardening cock. You let the filthiest grumble leave your lips and the figure atop you chuckles.

“Damn, bro, you all up and awake yet?”

. . . Oh.

That voice. That grating, sing-song, bitch of a voice.

You almost don’t want to say it, but: “Gamzee?” You chance to crack open an eye and meet a familiar dipshit grin.

And, there goes your boner.

Gamzee flails when you lash at him, but, unfortunately, recovers far too quickly for your liking. “About time! I thought you’d died on me or something.” He’s all grins and stupid facepaint when he hops off while you’re all red cheeks and snarls. . . . That’s pretty much your whole friendship in a nutshell, actually.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKING GRUB-HUMPING—”

Your roommate is all ready on his side of the room, bouncing slightly on his bed. The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice that you are yelling your lungs out at him calms your rage slightly. Slightly. Even slightly, though, seems to be enough for you to want to curl back up like a grub and catch that slow, smooth ferry back to dreamland. You do settle back into the sheets, your back to your brain-dead friend, but a nagging in your chest stops you from buying that ferry ticket.

“You all right, best friend?”

There’s a level of concern and clarity there that is rare for Gamzee Makara. It tugs at your heartstrings enough to quell all anger and leave you with something that you’ve been trying to ignore since you left Zahhak’s.

You sigh. “I’m fine, Gamzee. Just tired.” (A lie, for the most part. As much as you hate Zahhak, those nights when you find yourself tangled in blue sheets and the ocean-y smell of the room are the nights you sleep the best.)

“Sounds like you need some cheering up to me.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to do the cheering, right?”

The response comes as a crackling of a candy wrapper.

“Gamzee?”

The “Lookit me, bro!” is muffled.

You turn and a red Twizzler monster greets you, complete with a mouth full of red licorice that trails down to his chin, hands curled into claws, and so-laidback-it’s-comical growls. You stare, then suppress your surprised guffaw into an indignant snort.

“You’re an ass,” you declare, not bothering to hide your grin.

Gamzee hums good-naturedly and starts to chew.

-

You never liked Zahhak. In fact, you’re sure you’ve never had a single positive feeling towards the sweaty fuck. It’s the bastard’s own fault. The second you stepped up to him, the second Nepeta declared your name, you saw recognition pinch his face and saw it flicker behind his eyes. Somehow you just knew that if you extended a hand to him (which, of course, you didn’t and wouldn’t), he would not have taken it. He looked at you like you were some strange artifact, some pathetic, lame creature people knew would not be able to survive once it left its nest.

And, you hated it. You hated it, you hated it, you hated it.

So, when Zahhak started on about politics and society and other bullshit you can’t stand after Nepeta flounced off to class, your fist to his face was the first coherent thought that pierced your rage-fogged mind. You remember his stupid shades cracking and skating across the sidewalk, remember his stupid blue eyes widening in shock.

You readied for him to return the favor, but nothing came. He just continued to stare blankly at you, his lips curving around a simple, “Oh.”

-

You hate the fact that Zahhak still wears those glasses, cracked and somewhat lopsided. They piss you the fuck off, not because they are a constant reminder of that day, but because you have to resist readjusting them on his stupid face every time you see him.

-

Despite the attack of that stupidly lovable Twizzler monster, it does nothing for your shitty-ass mood. Rolling out of bed for class still takes more effort than it should, but once the door swings shut on a snoring Gamzee, it becomes a little easier to breathe. The walk to class is uneventful, save for the glances people give from the corner of their eyes. That you’ve gotten used to over the years; you don’t know what (or who, _Egbert_ ) made you think it would stop once you started college. You pull your hood tighter around you.

It’s only when you’re behind a computer screen that everything outside loses focus. In fact, you’re so caught up in your shitty lines of code and the bumbling of Prof. Deuce that you conveniently don’t notice Nepeta arrive late or slide into the seat next to you. You also conveniently don’t notice Trollian blinking, demanding your attention or the stare that’s burning a hole through the side of your face.

There’s no hiding when an hour passes and you’re gathering your things. Just as you sling your bag over your shoulder, Nepeta grounds you with green eyes. You manage to muster a frown.

We need to talk.

Like hell we do.

She wants to auspisticize, or whatever she calls it. You aren’t in the mood.

But then she finally insists, “ _Karkitty_ ,” and you give in, only because she one of the few people in this world you actually like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I won't be able to update this too regularly, especially with classes starting up again, but I'll try my best.
> 
> (And, yes, that's Clubs Deuce as a CIS professor, because of reasons.)


End file.
